


Never a Bride

by Flywoman



Series: Never a Bride [1]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Spain, Star-crossed, World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spain finally wins the World Cup, but Xavi Hernández still seems to be everyone’s second choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never a Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in large part by these videos from the 2010 World Cup:  
> [Carles Puyol meets the Queen](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXDT6sptO9c)  
> [In the tunnel just before the Spain-Netherlands final](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPySspdc_IM)  
> [Iker Casillas kissing Sara Carbonero](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1lWTpOo97R0&feature=related)  
> [Pepe Reina, David Villa, and Xavi serenading Iker and Sara](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=jxCm-vvyJL8)  
> (I confess to glossing over the actual games.)
> 
>  **Thanks:** To my first reader, [](http://jezziejay.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jezziejay.livejournal.com/)**jezziejay** – your encouragement means so much to me!  
> 

  
_**South Africa, June 2010** _

The second the door to their hotel room clicked shut, Xavi pushed Iker up against the nearest wall and pinned him there by the biceps.

Iker’s fair face flushed and his eyes glittered even as he drawled with assumed nonchalance, “Yeah, I agree, we should ease back into this slowly-“

 _“Shut up,”_ Xavi hissed, and stopped Iker’s smirking mouth with his own, bellying up against him so that he could feel the unmistakable twitch of the taller man’s cock even through two pairs of jeans. Iker’s tongue was still coated with caramelized sugar, sweet but with a bitter aftertaste, and he smelled like clean sweat and his favorite fancy-ass aftershave even though his jaw was already rough, rubbing almost painfully against the corners of Xavi’s lips. He pressed into Iker’s mouth for a moment, reacquainting himself after long absence, before releasing him to trail hard kisses down his throat and nip viciously at a nipple poking through the thin cotton t-shirt.

 _“Puta madre,”_ Iker gasped, pushing him away. But then he reached for the hem of his t-shirt and yanked it over his head in one fluid movement, abdominal muscles rippling in the dim light. He tossed the t-shirt aside as Xavi leaned in again, brushing his eyelashes against the patch of fine chestnut hair between Iker’s pecs, then licking a line down to the waistband of his Levi’s. Iker groaned softly and reached down to help, but Xavi only growled possessively and swatted his hands away. He worked quickly and cleverly at the buttons, pulled the jeans down part way, let Iker brace himself on his shoulders as he stepped out of them awkwardly, first one leg and then the other.

Xavi knelt between Iker’s knees and ran his hands firmly up the back of his thighs, buried his nose in the warm, familiar musk. Above him, Iker whimpered and shifted slightly. Xavi rubbed his cheek tantalizingly against Iker’s cock through the cotton, grappling urgently with his own belt buckle. He was completely undressed by the time Iker, always prepared, had finished rummaging through his carry-on for lube and a spare condom.

In spite of, or perhaps because of, his leadership positions on the pitch, Iker preferred to be dominated in the bedroom, and that had always suited Xavi just fine. He yanked the covers back on one of the beds and spread a towel over the sheets. With a familiar ease born of years of practice, they arranged themselves on top of it, Iker on his hands and knees, Xavi curving around him from behind.

It had been so many months since the last time, and Iker was so hot and tight, that Xavi knew that he wouldn’t be able to last very long. With any luck, though, this would only be the first opportunity of many. With lots of it, they might get as much as a month together. He slid slowly in again while Iker shuddered, then almost all the way out, smacking his friend on the flank.

“Fuck,” Iker groaned into the pillow, _“fuck,”_ and Xavi obligingly picked up the pace, adjusting his angle slightly and reaching around to wrap his fingers around Iker’s rock-hard cock. It seemed like only a few seconds before Iker jerked in his hand and closed up almost painfully around him.

He bit down on Iker’s shoulder to keep from crying out as he came.

“Welcome to South Africa,” Iker gasped, flopping face forward onto the bed.

***

Their first match almost blew the whole damn boat out of the water.

The Spaniards sat around in the dressing room, stunned, after the Switzerland game. Xavi looked around from one face to the next, wondering whether he dared to say something before del Bosque came back in to talk to them.

And then Iker stood up and cleared his throat.

“Beautiful game,” he said, clapping slowly and emphatically. The other players only stared back at him sullenly, unsure whether their team captain was being sarcastic after their humiliating loss. “No, I mean it,” he continued. “Some of the best fucking _tiki-taka_ from our Barcelona boys I’ve ever seen. Only,” and here he loomed over the seated David Villa and Fernando Torres in turn, avoiding the eyes of Xavi between them, “it doesn’t do us a damn bit of good to dominate possession if you don’t fucking _score_.”

He held up a hand as a couple of players began muttering mutinously. “Look. We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here. I know we lost. I know that no team has ever come back from losing the first match to win the World Cup.”

“Eh, _capi_ , is this how you always motivate Real Madrid to victory?” Xavi cracked, trying to lighten the mood and draw the team back together, even if (temporarily) against Iker, who would take this jibe from him as from no one else. He earned some suppressed chuckles as well as a dig in the ribs from David.

The corner of Iker’s lip twitched as if to say, _I saw what you did there_. “Yes,” he answered. “Because I wasn’t finished.” He drew himself to his full height and let his gaze sweep across the room.

“We are the best fucking side that Spain has ever seen,” he stated. “Euro 2008 was not just a fluke. We own that ball. We can do this, and we can do it with style. Of that I have no doubt whatsoever, precedents be damned.”

 _“¡Viva España!”_ a low-pitched voice boomed: Sergio Ramos, Xavi suspected, steadfastly supporting his captain even if he wasn’t quite sure what had just gone down.

 _“¡Qué viva!”_ three or four more voices roared, and someone turned the radio on, and by the time del Bosque returned, no doubt expecting to find their spirits in shambles, they were locked in a cheering conga line around the room, kicking off their cleats and stripping their shirts off as they went.

***

It was never easy or simple – this was the World Cup, after all – but after that, things went more smoothly. Villa found his feet and started scoring goals again for Spain, taking them past Honduras, Chile, and a scowling Cristiano Ronaldo in the round of 16 against Portugal. Xavi was elated by the prospect of bringing him to Barcelona at the end of the summer; it would be wonderful to have a striker of his power and determination.

Iker, for his part, was considerably less enthusiastic when Xavi raised the topic late that night. “Yeah, great, that’s all I need,” he grunted, and Xavi suspected that he was already starting to have nightmares of being humiliated from both sides of the box during the next _Clásico_.

“It will be interesting to see how well he and Leo manage to link up,” Xavi mused, idly stroking the soft skin at the small of Íker’s back.

“Huh?” Iker mumbled, face pressed into his pillow. “Villa’s a center forward too. Pep will have to switch between them.”

“No way,” Xavi said, shaking his head. “Leo always plays. And he plays center forward. Villa will just have to get used to working from the wing.”

“Does he know that?” Iker asked skeptically, plainly picturing the cocky number 7 being ambushed by this news when he arrived at Barcelona.

Xavi laughed and smacked him on the behind. “Of course he knows. Pep believes in transparency inside the dressing room.”

“Thought he believed in diplomacy,” Iker said, trying to stifle a yawn.

“That’s _outside_ the dressing room,” Xavi explained, and decided to lay off; it had been a stressful and exhausting game for Iker – he’d felt his own heart leap into his mouth at that challenge by Hugo Almeida – and they both deserved a break, and a good night’s sleep for a change. He rearranged their positions so that he could suck Iker off, slowly and comfortably, then lay back himself while Iker used his magic hands to best effect.

***

Most nights Pepe Reina ran card games in his room, and even if they had a match the next day there were plenty of players who went, knowing that they would almost certainly be warming the bench. Iker often went too – even though he played every match, he’d never needed much sleep – and Xavi became accustomed to drifting off alone with a random replay flickering on the television screen, then waking again in the early hours as the mattress dipped under Iker’s weight. Sometimes he went back to sleep almost immediately, Iker’s heavy body a comforting warmth against his bare skin. Sometimes he was already half-hard from an unremembered dream, and pushed back encouragingly until Iker reached around to clasp his cock, and they rocked together, sleepy and gentle in the soft morning light.

Either way, what Xavi liked best was waking up before Iker every morning. He felt incredibly lucky every time he got the opportunity to study him for more than a few seconds, sleep smoothing the faint lines from the still-boyish face, lips half-parted, long lashes lying lightly against his cheeks. The glimpse of this younger, carefree version of his friend took Xavi back to the days in which they’d first gotten to know each other, when football was a passion but still far from a profession, when they’d nursed hopes of one day winding up at the World Cup only in whispers, lying side by side in bunk beds and holding hands in the dark. Before the confusion of fame and fortune (more of those for Iker, he conceded), the initiation into an age-old rivalry, the audiences piercing their ears with whistles or alight with applause. Back when it was just boys with a ball and dreams of a beautiful game.

Then inevitably Iker would raise a hand to rub at his eyes, and when he opened them and recognition dawned, reality and adrenaline came rushing back to burn in Xavi’s veins. _“¿Qu'oraes?”_ Iker would slur, rolling away and reaching for the alarm clock, and then of course he’d curse and search frantically for his slippers, and Xavi would watch with a smirk as he tripped over himself in his haste to get to the shower. And thus another day would begin.

One day less that they would have together.

***

In contrast, Argentina blew blithely through the group stages and the round of sixteen. Although he hadn’t managed to score himself, Leo looked as happy as Xavi had ever seen him. The press was full of photos of him as Maradona’s darling as well as his long-awaited heir.

That all ended on the day that Argentina faced Germany in the quarter-finals and got thoroughly thrashed.

Xavi called Leo later, of course. There was never a right thing to say in this situation, especially to Leo, who hated losing at the best of times and would be all the more upset now, with the press flinging a lot of bullshit about how he hadn’t done his best for Argentina as he did for Barcelona.

When Leo didn’t pick up, as Xavi had fully expected he wouldn’t, he left the most encouraging message that he could muster. “You’re a lion,” he said firmly into the phone. “You’ve done your club and country proud.” He paused, conscious of the need to inject some humor while eschewing both _schadenfreude_ and self-congratulation. “And since we just managed to squeak by Paraguay today, I want to thank you on behalf of the entire Spain NT for tiring Germany out for us before we have to face them.”

Leo never called him back, but then, Xavi hadn’t really expected him to.

***

The semi-final was a huge game: the heady thrill of domination, shot after shot rattling the Germans’ nerves, a fantastic save by San Iker. But it was Xavi’s foot that sent the ball curling out of the corner for Puyi’s monstrous header in the 74th minute, the moment at which they all knew the match was won.

They were in the dressing room when Queen Sofia herself came down with her entourage to congratulate them on advancing to the final. Xavi was one of the first to suss out what was about to go down and promptly elbowed David Villa in the ribs and hissed futilely at Geri to pull down his shirt, but he let Iker lead the team in an ear-splitting round of applause. The Queen nodded graciously and took a short, graceful turn around the room, applauding her warriors in red. Sergio Ramos, showing surprising presence of mind for a man with only a towel draped around his shoulders, semi-discreetly toed dirty socks and jerseys out of her path every time she turned away and gestured urgently at Iker across from him to do the same.

Belatedly Xavi realized that the man of the hour was nowhere in sight, having raced off to the showers with his usual enthusiasm. He wondered whether it would be considered a grave insult or some kind of crime against the state if Puyi managed to miss her visit completely. He craned his neck, trying to look around the line of bodyguards for some sign of his compatriot.

The Queen began working her way down one side, shaking each man’s hand with a warm smile. Xavi was a little chagrined to realize that she was taller, at least in heels, and had to incline her head when she spoke to him, although she made it seem like a courtesy rather than demeaning in any way. Her small, wrinkled hand was warm and dry. Xavi flexed his fingers, feeling like this experience had only added to the surreality of the win itself after so many years, and watched the Queen shake hands with David Villa and then with Andrés, who had gone just as white as the undershirt he wore and wasn’t able to make a sound.

Fortunately by the time Queen Sofia got to Geri, Albiol had helped jerk his jersey back down over his belly. Xavi watched Iker wipe one palm nervously against the other just before she reached him, but he needn’t have worried; Sofia not only gave him an extra-vigorous handshake but also slapped appreciatively at his bare bicep, making him blush. Well, she had good taste, Xavi certainly had to grant her that.

Just as the Queen was turning back to congratulate quiet little David Silva, Puyi reappeared. Xavi choked back a laugh when he realized that the man was clad only in what he hoped was a securely wrapped towel. But even half-naked and hair soaking wet, Puyol was dignity personified as he nodded and shook hands with Her Majesty. His delighted teammates burst into fresh applause and not a few catcalls, which Puyi acknowledged with a good-humored wave and a minimum of profanity as he strode back to his locker and grabbed a bottle of water.

David turned to Xavi, threw an arm around his shoulders, and said _sotto voce_ , “Carles Puyol is the _fucking boss_.”

***

Naturally that episode was all over the internet in a matter of nanoseconds. Puyi took the evening of good-natured ribbing like the man he was, and since everyone was allowed an extra glass of wine at dinner to celebrate and Pepe Reina had figured out where to get more, it eventually became rather raucous. When Pepe and David Villa instigated a mass mocking striptease to “You Can Leave Your Hat On,” Xavi figured that it was time to make a quiet exit.

It was only then that he noticed that Iker was missing.

He scanned the familiar faces around him, taking a somewhat unsteady headcount, and came up with an answer that puzzled him: the only other one AWOL was Sergio Ramos who, everybody knew, enjoyed a party as much as the next three men, especially if it involved singing, dancing, or otherwise making an ass of one’s self.

“XAAAAVIIIII!” Villa blared, beckoning him over. “Where’re you going? The night’s still young!” He pursed his lips and stuck his fingers into the waistband of his unzipped jeans, sliding them down a couple of inches while suggestively batting his eyelashes.

Xavi allowed one last glass of wine be pressed into his hand as he let himself be drawn back into the festivities.

***

When he woke up late the next morning, head pounding, his tongue thick and fuzzy in his foul mouth, he was alone. He sat up quickly, which of course was a mistake. To his mingled surprise and relief, Iker was asleep in his own bed, sprawled untidily across the covers, still in his clothes from the night before. At least, he had been asleep before Xavi’s awkward, sudden movements made him stir.

“Morning,” he mumbled, not quite opening his eyes. “Hey, know what? We’re going to the fucking world cup _finals_.” A disbelieving smile spread slowly across Iker’s face just before Xavi clumsily closed the distance between them and hugged him tight, breathing in the warm, slightly sour sleep-smell that surrounded him. He felt Iker’s cock starting to harden against his thigh.

“Want to celebrate?” Iker murmured in his ear.

Xavi considered that option more seriously than he should have, given that the ache between his temples was rapidly approaching head-splitting proportions. “Um, thanks, but what I really need right now is aspirin, and maybe an IV.”

Iker made a soft sound of sympathy and ran a careful hand through Xavi’s unruly hair, gently massaging his scalp. Xavi relaxed under his fingers, remembering other mornings when he’d been younger and just as foolish. “I’ve got aspirin in my bag in the bathroom. Think there’s a couple of bottles of water in there too.”

“Where were you last night?” Xavi forced himself to ask once he was halfway through the second of their complimentary bottles.

Iker sat up, looking a little self-conscious, and answered, “I was with Sara. When I got back you were snoring, so I just slept over here.”

Xavi cocked his head. “Sara Carbonero?”

“Yes, of course,” Iker said, as if that should have been obvious. As if half the women of their generation didn’t share the same name.

“What, you’d agreed to grant her an exclusive interview if we passed the semifinals?”

“I guess you could put it that way,” Iker agreed, grinning. Then he looked Xavi up and down, and his grin widened. “Where are your pants?”

Xavi groaned and swallowed the last of the water before he ground out, “I am going to fucking _kill_ David Villa.”

***

The day of reckoning finally arrived. The Dutch and Spanish sides lined up on their respective sides of the tunnel, aware that the eyes of the entire world were on them, that one way or another, history would be made. Xavi was so anxious that he could barely contain himself, bouncing up and down on the toes of his cleats, while Andrés, constantly caricatured for his trademark calm, was so tense and white that his teammates were worried that he might actually pass out.

Xavi wanted to get close to Iker, to share a few last sentiments of strength and encouragement, but he found that Sergio Ramos had already cornered their captain. He waited his turn, a little impatiently, letting his eyes roam around, as precious seconds ticked by.

Sergio continued to speak softly to their captain, clutching his forearm, his eyes gazing earnestly into Iker’s with an expression of adoration that made Xavi want to kick him. The noise in the tunnel made it impossible for him to hear what was being said, especially given the deep rumble of Sergio’s voice. Xavi pushed closer to them, almost standing on tiptoe as he tried to catch more than a few words here and there. _“Fuerza… vamos… cariño.”_ And then Sergio leaned in, clasped Iker’s face, and gave him a firm, lingering kiss at the corner of his mouth.

At that moment, Xavi made the connection between Sergio’s absence after the semifinal and his obvious intimacy with Iker tonight. He felt himself consumed with sudden hatred for that friendly, horsey face, that loud bray of a laugh, that stupid mane of wheat-gold hair straight out of a fucking Pantene ad. He could only glare up at Sergio as the young defender released Iker at last, looked down and punched Xavi companionably in the arm, then turned to face forward, seemingly oblivious to the emotional havoc he had just wreaked.

Luckily Xavi didn’t have time to think about any of this for at least the next one hundred and fifty minutes.

***

The final game against the Netherlands had managed both to crawl and blur; it felt like the longest two and a half hours of Xavi’s entire life and yet unbelievably became nothing more than an adrenaline distorted memory in no time at all. It was a brutal, frustrating match, fourteen yellow cards including the one Andrés earned for taking off his shirt to reveal a tribute to Dani Jarque after his long-awaited goal in the 116th minute. But they had won. They had won.

There were crowds, speeches, medals, fireworks. Xavi would have to watch the tv coverage afterwards because he was so pumped up that the experience was like a surreal dream that melted away as soon as he tried to turn his head to look directly at it. Iker was weeping openly and uncontrollably, of that he was aware. Although he couldn’t even quite remember why, he found himself avoiding him, leaving others to hold their captain close and speak softly to him. Instead he celebrated with Puyi, with Geri, with Cesc, and with Andrés, who seemed to have lost all powers of speech in his shock at finding himself a national hero.

He remembered why as soon as he stumbled back to their room in the wee hours and found Iker waiting for him. He could feel the tipsy smile vanish from his face, the sparkling edges of everything go dark.

“What’s that face?” Iker asked him bluntly. “We’re the fucking _world champions_. Why do you look like you swallowed a lemon?”

Xavi briefly considered pretending that he had no idea what Iker was talking about, but the other man knew him too well, so he simply shrugged. When Iker stepped closer to slip an arm around his waist, Xavi turned away abruptly, muttering, “Don’t touch me.”

 _“Joder,”_ Iker said, rolling his eyes. “If I had known that winning the World Cup would put you in this good a mood, I would have roomed with Ramos.”

“Why didn’t you?” Xavi jabbed before he could bite back his bitterness. “I’m guessing that would have been much more convenient.”

Now Iker was staring at him. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

“Why wouldn’t you want to room with him?” Xavi rejoined, vaguely aware that he was probably shouting, running a hand distractedly through his hair. “He’s younger, taller, better-looking, probably a terrific ride once you saddle him up-“

“He does have great hair,” Iker conceded with a straight face, then dimpled. “But I like to have a polysyllabic conversation once in a while. The man makes Leo Messi look articulate.”

“Leave Leo out of this,” Xavi snapped automatically. “Not everyone was raised to speak like you, you fucking _madrileño_ snob,” he added, affecting a pronounced lisp.

Iker rolled his eyes. “Please, I’m not talking about his accent. I understand Pepita just fine. But that boy speaks like he has marbles in his mouth.”

“Whatever,” Xavi said impatiently. “I think you’re getting off topic here.”

“Right,” Iker agreed, trying to sound grave even as amusement crinkled the corners of his eyelids. “You were accusing me of sleeping with Sergio.” He smirked. “Where the fuck did you even get that idea?”

“Today,” Xavi admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “When he kissed you in the tunnel.”

At this, Iker leaned back and laughed openly. “Xavi, you’re being ridiculous. Sergio is like that with _everyone_. Everyone from Real Madrid, I mean,” he amended, off Xavi’s look of disbelief. He sank down on the bed and chuckled again. “Besides, if Sergio were sleeping with me, he’d have tweeted naked photos of us to everyone we know by now,” and he gave Xavi an exaggerated thumbs-up with a toothy grin that was eerily similar to Sergio’s.

“Now you’re kind of creeping me out,” Xavi deadpanned.

“You know I’m right, though,” Iker insisted. He held out his arms, and Xavi reluctantly allowed himself to be wrapped in them. Time passed as they sat there, tangled up together, Xavi straddling Iker’s hips, letting the lassitude of utter exhaustion relax his limbs at last.

“Better?” Iker asked after a while, biting lightly on the lobe of his left ear.

Xavi shivered and tilted his head slightly to give Iker more access, ran his hands experimentally up under his friend’s shirt and listened for the quick intake of breath. Then he sighed and shook his head. “I’m too tired,” he said. “And a little too drunk, I think.”

Iker nodded. “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll just sleep.” He scooted back in the bed, pulling Xavi along with him, and began helping him shed his clothes. Naked, they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling, sharing the pillow.

Iker fell asleep almost immediately, but Xavi watched the world whirl in front of him for what seemed like hours before his eyes finally shut.

***

“You know what this means,” Iker mused in the morning, running his big toe lazily along the curve of Xavi’s calf. “You have a real shot at the Ballon d’Or this year. Everyone loves a World Cup winner.”

Xavi shrugged, trying to push down the hope welling from an unacknowledged spring deep in his chest, to slow his suddenly racing heart. “Eh, Andrés scored the winning goal. That’s the clip they’ll be replaying for the next fifty years.”

“All right,” Iker conceded. “But we all know how integral to the team you are. And you’ve already been nominated so many times.”

“So this would be, what, a sympathy vote?” Xavi shot back, pretending to be offended.

Iker laughed and pulled him closer, resting Xavi’s head comfortably on his chest so that he could feel Iker’s torso shiver with every heartbeat. “Let’s say more of a lifetime achievement award.”

“That’s even worse,” Xavi grumbled into Íker’s armpit. “You make me sound like I’m ready to retire.”

“You know it, _abuelo_ ,” Iker teased, stroking the bunched-up muscles in Xavi’s back. “But it’s true, you deserve it more than anyone.”

Xavi was tired of talking about it. He wriggled out of Iker’s arms and straddled him, then reached down to cup himself. “I’ve got your fucking Ballons d’Or right here,” he growled, and Iker’s bouncing belly tickled his balls until they were both breathless with laughter.

***

Leo called while Iker was in the shower. “Congratulations, Xavi,” he chirped, his soft, slurred voice further distorted so that Xavi had to press his cell phone hard against his ear. “You must be very happy.” There was a wistful quality to his tone, but only an old friend who was listening for it would detect it.

“Thank you,” Xavi said sincerely. “I’m glad you called. How are you doing?”

“Oh, you know,” Leo said evasively; Xavi could picture the wry shrug. “How are things with Casillas?”

“Good,” Xavi answered. “Really good.” He laughed. “He’s very, very happy. As you can imagine.”

“I saw him on tv.” Leo paused in a way that Xavi suspected must be meaningful. He loved Leo, but really the boy could be so maddening at times.

“Yeah? You mean, at the end of the game?” Xavi wondered whether Leo was about to lecture him on his conspicuous failure to celebrate with Iker.

“I meant, afterwards. In his interview with Sara.”

“Sara Carbonero?” Xavi hazarded.

“Hmm, yeah,” Leo hummed vaguely. “You should find the clip and watch it.” He paused again. “Call me back later if you want.”

“Yeah, okay,” Xavi agreed, really confused now.

 _“Chau, amigo.”_ Leo hung up.

“Huh,” Xavi said to no one in particular. Iker was still in the bathroom. He booted up his laptop and threw a few key words into YouTube. A particular clip popped up that already had over seven hundred hits.

There was Iker, all right, being interviewed by Sara after the medal ceremony. Iker was obviously still very emotional, but his answers were nothing out of the ordinary: how happy and contented he was, how he wanted to thank the fans for their support, his parents... Xavi started to zone out, smiling a little as a wave of nostalgia started washing over him. Distantly he was aware that Iker had broken off, apparently unable to continue to speak.

“No worries,” Sara said, noticing that Iker was on the verge of tears. “We’ll catch up again after-“

And then _Iker leaned forward, pulled her close, and kissed her passionately on the lips_ before turning around abruptly to leave the room. She and Xavi were both left with their mouths hanging open. _“Madre mia,”_ Sara stammered, lifting her hand to her face in confusion.

Xavi had a few other choice words to add as he slammed his laptop shut.

***

“You love her,” Xavi said without preamble as soon as Iker returned to the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. He had braced himself against the headboard of his bed and sat, arms folded, legs stretched out in front of him, trying to still the shaking that threatened to overwhelm him.

“You finally saw the interview,” Iker said. It wasn’t a question. It belatedly occurred to Xavi that the gesture he had seen had not just been that of a man overcome by emotion. It had been a calculated declaration meant for the world’s eyes. And his.

“You love her,” Xavi said again, accusingly. “How long have you… why did I have to hear about this from fucking _Leo?_ ”

“Jesus Christ, Xavi, I wasn’t keeping any secrets from you. I’ve been telling you about Sara since we got here. You know,” and Iker looked genuinely angry now, “for a guy who’s known for seeing everything, you sure don’t listen very well.”

“I figured there was a girl!” Xavi shouted. “There have always been girls.”

“Not like this,” Iker said sharply. “I wasn’t sure myself, but yesterday when we…” he swallowed. “Not like this,” he repeated softly.

“What do you even have in common?” Xavi demanded. He felt dizzy. He was grateful to be sitting down.

Iker scratched his scalp, looking puzzled by Xavi’s vehemence. “Well, football, for one. We watch it together, talk about it-“

“You can’t play together,” Xavi protested.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you and I really play together either,” Iker said bluntly. “I mean, maybe a few games on the same side in a good year, that’s nothing.”

“Oh,” Xavi said, hating the sound of his own voice slipping up an octave. “So what we have- _this_ ,” he grabbed the gold medal in his left hand and shook it, _“this,”_ and he jabbed his right index finger back and forth in the air between Iker and himself, “is _nothing_?”

Now Iker looked alarmed. “No, that’s not what I-“

“I know what you meant,” Xavi said, feeling himself starting to shake again despite his best efforts. He wondered whether he was about to be sick.

Iker flexed his fingers spasmodically, looking like he desperately wanted to hit something. Finally his answer emerged in a low growl of frustration. “This isn’t enough for me, Xavi. It’s never been enough.”

Xavi understood from his tone that it was now or never. Making a supreme effort, he dragged himself to his feet. Xavi stood there for a moment, swaying back and forth, then stepped forward to grasp Iker’s forearm and looked him in the eye. “Come back to Barcelona with me.”

It was the old challenge.

“Move to Madrid,” Iker countered. He reached for Xavi’s fingers with his free hand and entwined them.

They stood there, chests heaving a little, staring at one another. For almost an entire second, something in Iker’s eyes allowed Xavi to dare to hope, optimism swelling deep inside him like a newborn star. Then he shook his head and stepped away, disengaging from Xavi’s grasp.

“Nothing’s changed,” he said.

“I know nothing’s changed, that’s exactly why-“

Iker interrupted him. “We can’t switch teams, the fans would never forgive us. And my mother would have a heart attack if I told her about you.”

“Your mother loves me,” Xavi pointed out, because it was true and because it was all that he could think to say. He could feel himself deflating, becoming something small and cold, a white dwarf maybe.

“Not as much as your mother loves me,” Iker joked sadly. “But they still wouldn’t want us as sons-in-law, you know that.”

There was silence for a moment, Xavi swallowing back sour saliva, until finally Iker broke it. “So.”

“So…”

“Is this over?” When Xavi didn’t respond right away, he prodded, “Do you want it to be?”

“Yes,” Xavi muttered after a moment. “No. I don’t know.” A large part of him wanted to grab Iker by the shoulders and shake him, wanted to scream in his face that he was a fucking hypocrite, that if he didn’t care so much about looking like a saint, they could both choose happiness. But another part of him wondered whether, if that chance at happiness were indeed held out to him, he would actually be able to reach out and take it.

 _“Ven aquí,”_ Iker murmured, “come here,” and he stepped forward and enfolded Xavi in his arms one last time, tucking his old friend’s head securely under his chin.

***

On the plane back to Madrid, the whole first class compartment was swaying in a celebratory mood only heightened by the quantities of complimentary wine being consumed. David Villa had his arm wrapped tightly around Pepe Reina’s shoulders even as Pepe tried to talk to his wife on his cell phone in the seat next to him. Cesc and Geri were sitting together too, hamming it up for the cameras, another pair of old friends making the most of their temporary stint on the same team. Iker was nowhere in sight, having chosen to sit with his family and Sara, who had been relegated to economy class.

For his part, Xavi had been placed next to Puyi, both apparently second picks in the seatmate department. That was good; Puyi was surprisingly sensitive to mood, and not as nosy as some of their other teammates would have been. He had not remarked on Xavi’s initial uncharacteristic silence, simply offered him toasts whenever warranted and rambled on cheerfully about how much he’d been enjoying the latest Perez-Reverte novel. Ever suspicious, Xavi wondered whether Leo might have alerted Puyi to be on the lookout for trouble, but he didn’t ask, and his seatmate didn’t tell. In any case, by this point in the flight, the alcohol and camaraderie had worked their synergistic magic, and Xavi was relaxed and even, he suspected, just this side of radiant.

Puyi paused in his narrative as a sudden shadow fell over Xavi from the aisle. “We’re gonna pay Iker and Sara a little visit back in coach,” Pepe announced boozily from above, patting his boombox. David was close behind him, eyes alight, a broad grin softening his sharply chiseled features. Making a split second decision, Xavi downed the rest of his drink, then grabbed a fresh glass from the flight attendant, ignoring Puyi’s frankly worried glance. He felt fine. He felt great. He could be a fucking grown-up about this.

Pepe and David had already entered the coach compartment by the time he caught up to them and allowed himself to be drawn under David’s arm. _“Le dije yo al pintor pintame la carita de la nina mas bonita,”_ they sang lustily. Xavi’s chest swelled with an old affection as he watched Iker turn away and try to hide his smiling face with his hand, torn as usual between pleasure and mortification.

Oh yes, he was supposed to give his drink to Iker. Xavi ducked away from David and crossed over to the opposite aisle where Iker was sitting with his parents and Sara. Sara pursed her lips, looking none too pleased to see him, even though Xavi couldn’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t be… other than everything he presumed that Iker hadn’t told her about him. He smiled at her and waited with what he hoped was only an appropriate air of expectation.

“Yes, _tio,_ I’ll let you at him,” Sara said, tossing her hair and getting gracefully out of the way. For one wild second Xavi misunderstood and gave Iker a questioning glance as he held out the glass of wine, but Iker frowned fractionally and shook his head even as he accepted it. Xavi turned away then, hiding the sudden sinking of his heart, to kiss Iker’s mother and hug his father. He was an idiot.

He let the perpetually smiling Ramos take his place in the conga line back to first class, sandwiched far too snugly between Pepe and David, and retreated to the restroom, where he sat shivering in the tiny compartment, staring at his shoes, until the flimsy folding door shook under a forceful fist.

“Xavi! You all right?” Puyi, apparently.

He roused himself then, called, _“Sí, claro,”_ in a firm voice to reassure his friend, stood up and rinsed his face, staring into his own reddened eyes, at the lines that appeared deeper in the dim light. _“Sí,”_ he said again, more softly, and opened the door, mask once again fixed firmly in place.

 

 **End Notes:**  
Xavi Hernández and Andrés Iniesta were both short-listed for the 2010 Ballon d’Or, but it was awarded to their Barcelona teammate Lionel (Leo) Messi.  
At last report, Iker Casillas and Sara Carbonero had purchased a house together and were planning to get married.  
When questioned recently about his continued bachelor status, Xavi Hernández replied, “Girlfriends make too many demands. They are a distraction from football.”

  



End file.
